


i kissed a boy (and i liked it)

by outrageousfortune



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Archie Andrews, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay Panic, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Making Out, Slow Burn, archie's gay awakening lmao, episode 3x05 the great escape, make no mistake this is jarchie not joarchie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-08-26 21:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16689109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outrageousfortune/pseuds/outrageousfortune
Summary: Ice-cold fingers clench over his lungs. The warden’s right, and Archie’s trapped, and he’s been living on this goddamned chess board for so long that he can no longer tell who's moving the pieces.or: riverdale adults continue to be evil, things don't always go according to plan, and archie might not be as straight as he thinks.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey.” Archie takes the other boy by the arm. “Joaquin, are you with me?”

Joaquin doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick from the wall to Archie’s and back again, finally settling low on his face. Something odd and nameless grows within that pale blue, and it makes Archie nervous. He opens his mouth to say—what, exactly, he’s not sure—when Joaquin surges forward and _kisses_ him.

Calloused fingers cup his jaw. Archie doesn’t think, just reacts—his own lips responding to the hard warmth of Joaquin’s. They’re a little rough, like the rest of him, nothing polished or smoothed over, but Archie finds he doesn’t mind. The closeness of human contact, their breath mingling together—it’s intoxicating, especially after so long away from Veronica— _Veronica._

His eyes fly open and he pushes a palm against Joaquin’s front, hard, shoving him back. “What the _hell_ was that, man?” Archie says, chest heaving. Distantly, he registers a flash of hurt across Joaquin’s face, but he’s too distracted to care.

Joaquin just _kissed_ him. And Archie...kissed back. And Archie’s straight. Unequivocally. And has a _girlfriend_.

While he’s trying to make sense of all this, Joaquin pulls something small and sharp from his pocket. By the time Archie’s hormone-addled brain registers “KNIFE,” the cold metal’s already pressed against the smooth skin of his abdomen.

Archie doesn’t breathe. “ _Joaquin—_ “

“I’m sorry, Archie,” Joaquin says, still holding the knife flat to Archie’s stomach. “I really am. But the warden said if I did this, I’d—I’d finally ascend.”

Archie doesn’t know what the hell Joaquin’s on about—maybe the poor dude’s finally cracked—but he _does_ have some experience trying to talk down crazy people. “ _No_ —Joaquin— _you don’t have to do this_ ,” Archie pours out in a rush. Against his skin, the knife wavers slightly, a hair’s breadth from drawing blood. “I don’t know what he’s been telling you, but you don’t have to listen, there’s gotta be _some other way_ —"

“There _isn’t_ _!_ ” Joaquin snarls, even as his voice shakes. “The warden’s watching, even now. It’s you or me. And I won’t let— _anyone_ else—hurt me again.”

The blade digs harder and Archie meets Joaquin’s eyes. There’s fear in them, and resolution, but beyond that—pain, deep and systemic, like an old wound made raw.

He feels Joaquin’s grip on the blade twitch; Archie knows he’s running out of time. But he has an inkling, now, of what _might_ just work.

He draws a breath. Then, in one swift stride, he’s pinning Joaquin’s mouth beneath his own. Joaquin makes a surprised noise against him, but he neither pulls away nor stabs him, which Archie takes as a good sign. Pushing forward again, he herds Joaquin back against the wall, his lips crushing down as the blade against his side loosens. Joaquin shudders as Archie braces one hand on the wall beside Joaquin’s head, the other hooking in the hem along his waist, yanking him roughly forward until their bodies collide in a single line of heat.

The knife clatters to the floor.

 _You can stop now, Andrews,_ he reminds himself. He did it; he’s safe, at least for now. He should pull away, and grab the knife, and get the hell into the arena before the warden comes looking. He should.

But he doesn’t.

He kisses Joaquin fiercely, all teeth and clumsy aggression, every ounce of pent-up frustration pouring into that single thread of contact. Joaquin rakes his fingers through Archie’s hair and his whole body shivers, hips bucking forward, pulse crashing in his ears. There’s no fight club, no prison, no Riverdale—only this. Only the taste of sweat and the antiseptic smell of prison-issued soap and Joaquin’s tongue in his mouth and Joaquin’s body pinned under his like this was all they were ever made for.

“Mr. Andrews,” a sharp voice says, “Mr. DeSantos. Am I interrupting something?”

Archie’s blood runs cold. He fights to respond, but the sheer whiplash of the past few moments makes his head spin. Joaquin, at least, has enough good sense to push Archie away and turn, but Archie still can’t, still _won’t_ tear his eyes from the wall to face the warden. Not when his heart feels like a block of ice lodged in his chest and he can’t shake the feeling that he won’t make it out of this one unscathed.

“Oh, no, don’t stop on _my_ account,” the warden says, strolling between them, “not when we’ve been _so_ enjoying the show.” He nods at something behind Archie, who follows the movement and, with a sickened lurch in his gut, notices the blinking red light of a security camera. _God_ —that whole _time—_

The warden’s smile makes Archie’s skin crawl. _No_. He can’t let him win, he has to do _something_ — _the knife_ , he thinks, and before he can stop himself, his head turns to the glint of metal against the ground.

Archie lunges forward, but the warden’s closer. “Ah, yes. The knife,” the warden drawls once it’s securely in his grasp, wagging the blade thoughtfully between his fingers. “Mr. DeSantos, in the future, it would fare you well to _use_ it, not _drop_ it.” Joaquin’s eyes stay trained on the floor, but Archie can see his hands shake before clenching into fists. “Then again,” the warden pauses, lips curling, “perhaps you won’t _have_ much of a future.”

Archie’s blood boils over. He wants nothing more than to rush at the warden, to throttle him by his jowly throat, to make him suffer a thousand times over every hurt he's inflicted on others. But. That knife. And he’s _so close,_ so _damn close_ to freedom—if he can just keep his head down and trust in Veronica’s plan, by this time tomorrow he’ll never have to see the ugly bastard again.

That would be the smart thing to do—stay silent and unassuming. But as he watches the warden advance slowly on Joaquin, twirling the knife almost lazily, Archie realizes “smart” was never exactly his strong suit. “Warden Norton!” he bursts out, drawing his attention back to Archie. “You won’t get away with this— _any_ of this,” he promises, words heavy with as much menace as he can muster.

The warden just laughs. “Oh? And why’s that? Are you expecting that Betty Cooper of yours to somehow prove your ‘innocence’? Or Jughead Jones to publish a _school newspaper_ _article_ and save the day?” The warden shakes his head, dripping with derision. “And don’t tell me you think Veronica Lodge is going to ride in on a white horse and free you—in fact, maybe I should arrange for a little chat with Miss Lodge, myself.” The warden’s smile—all malice and greasy lips—turns Archie’s stomach. “I’m sure I have some information she’d be _very_ interested to hear—or see,” he adds with another nod to the security camera. “And, well, if you think she’ll want anything to do with you after that…”

Ice-cold fingers clench over Archie’s lungs. He’s right. He’s right. His heartbeat spurs like a rabbit in a cage, nowhere to run. The warden’s right, and Archie’s trapped, and he’s been living on this goddamned chess board for so fucking long that he can no longer tell who's moving the pieces. 

“Oh, wouldn’t that be _delicious_ ,” the warden continues with a sigh. “Such a pity—it’s almost enough to make me want to keep you alive.”

Joaquin shouts a warning, but Archie hears it as if from underwater, feet rooted to the spot. He widens his eyes just in time for the warden to step forward and thrust the blade into his gut.

His mouth opens and closes. He doesn’t remember doubling over, but he’s staring at the ground, vision swimming as he clutches his side. When he lifts his fingers, they come away slick with red. _Checkmate_ , he thinks dazedly.

“Enjoy your fight,” the warden says, and pushes him into the arena.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Archie was never one to believe in miracles. Even now, the word brings to mind vague Sunday mornings and simple white pews, plasticky chinos and long, stretching services that he used to think would never end—until, one day, they did. Just like doing his own laundry and no longer counting on an after-school snack, it was simply another reality of their post-separation world. He should’ve known better than to question it.

But the Coopers still went. And once, after watching from his window as Betty clambered into her family’s minivan, the whole lot of them clad in identical, clean-pressed pastels, Archie had asked his father why they’d stopped.

“Kid,” Fred had sighed. He’d set down the stack of papers he was holding—turning them over when Archie’s stare caught on the angry capital letters—and rubbed his face, eyes bleary.  “We don’t need to wait around for somethin’ magical come save us, alright? ‘Cause _nothin’s_ coming.” His voice was tired, worn through like the sole of an old boot, and Archie suddenly realized that his dad was no longer quite so young as he once was. “The only ‘miracles’ you’re ever gonna get are the ones you work for. And I don’t need to sit in a room every Sunday for some guy who’s never worked his hands a day in his life to tell me otherwise.”

To Archie, that had made a lot of sense. The construction company wasn’t kept afloat by _miracles_ —it ran on his father’s sweat and muscle and faded dreams, and later, Archie’s, too. And if miracles _were_ real, then surely they would’ve intervened before 17-year-old Fred had to watch his father waste away into the grave.

No. The Andrews men aren’t much for miracles. Which, as Archie reflects with a rueful burst of lucidity, is a damn shame, seeing as how that’s about the only way he can think to survive this.

***

His vision doubles, but he can still make out the fighter approaching him.

“ _Mad Dog?_ ” Surprise cuts through his haziness, and he feels, for the first time since Joaquin pulled out that knife, a bit of hope. “Mad Dog, it’s me, it’s Archie—”

The blow squares him in the jaw. Archie barely registers it, just another wave of heat cresting on his battered frame, but the roar of the crowd tells him it must’ve been a good one. Veronica’s up there, he remembers, or maybe just hopes. He fights the urge to look for her in the crowd, to seek out that flash of absurd blond wig among the faces jeering for his blood. He has to trust. He has to trust that she’s really there, that they all made it in okay, that her carefully-wrought plan can come to fruition if he just stays conscious long enough to fit through the grate. No miracles—just hard work.

“Hit me,” grunts Mad Dog. Archie tries, and then they’re deadlocked, arms wrested around each other but close enough to speak without their voices carrying. As quickly as he can, Archie tells Mad Dog their plan, urges him to come with.

The resignation in Mad Dog’s eyes surfaces before he can even shake his head. And it feels _wrong_ , it feels like leaving a brother behind, it feels like betraying everything he’s ever stood for, but when Veronica sets off the distraction, Archie climbs into the drain. And Mad Dog stays.

***

When he tumbles out of the drain, half-conscious and leaking blood like a siphon, Betty is there. She’s there, just like she was there the first time he lost a tooth, and the first time he broke his wrist falling out of the treehouse, and the second time he broke his wrist falling out of the treehouse, and the first time he heard his parents fight, _really_ fight, the two of them huddled in his beanbag chairs trying to block out the shouting with Mario Kart. She’s there like she’s always been there for Archie, literally just a stone’s throw away, there to walk to school or laugh at his dumb jokes or listen to him mess around on guitar.

Even now, painted an inch thick with blood and muck and worse, Betty looks at him like she _sees_ him. And Archie’s beginning to realize just how much he’s taken that for granted.

***

Archie’s splayed on the backseat of Reggie’s car, a tarp shoved under him so his blood doesn’t seep into the expensive leather. Every so often cursing erupts from the front seats, followed swiftly by the squeal of tires as they’re thrown against the sides of the car. And every time, Veronica reaches back and grabs Archie’s hand, alternating between murmuring soothing words and screaming things like “I SAID _DRIVE_ , NOT STROLL, MANTLE,” or “YOU MIGHT BE HOTTER THAN ANSEL ELGORT, BUT YOUR GETAWAY SKILLS ARE _NOT_ ON THAT LEVEL.”

Archie doesn’t really hear either. His wound, barely stinging during the fight, now throbs like a burning talon twisting in his flesh. Consciousness becomes a fleeting thing, tethered with strings that seem determined to slip through his grasp.

The car careens again. Reggie swears, low and serious, and Archie hears the rumble of Joaquin’s throat as they’d kissed. The knife, glinting in the dark. Crimson-stained fingers. Mad Dog, rocking back on his haunches, squaring up for one last stand. _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—_

The door yanks open and Archie almost falls, something hooking under his arms at the last second. “Come on, Andrews, just hold on bro, just a _little bit_ further—”

A blur of green as he’s pulled along. _Fox Forest?_ The air smells mossy, the ground spongy beneath him— _oh, God._ They’re going to dump his body in the river. _I’m not dead,_ he tries to shout, but his tongue won’t work. He can smell it: the banks, thick with mud and layers of rotted debris—debris he’s soon to join—

He thrashes violently against his captors until they drop him with a weary “Jesus _Christ._ ”

“Come on, Arch,” says his mom, smiling at him from the front seat. “We’re almost there.” He blinks. No, it’s Veronica, and she’s helping Reggie tug him to a wide hole in the ground. He squints at it dubiously. “You’re safe,” she promises him. “You’re okay.”

And then he’s falling.

***

When he comes to, he’s shivering, the iron rungs of the ladder freezing against his back. But the arms encircling him are warm, and their touch gentle, so _gentle_ , so conscious of his bruised and broken skin.

“Oh, god— _Archie_ ,” Jughead murmurs. His hands hover before landing, tentative, to stroke his hair, to graze his cheek. And Archie’s never believed in miracles, but now, cradled in his best friend’s arms, the panic in his veins finally subsiding as he begins to believe Veronica, that he’s _safe_ , that he’s _okay_ —he can think of no other word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with this!! this chapter was a little more gen but that was just how the cookie crumbled, i promise there are more TenderTimes(tm) ahead. i'm hoping to update soon but also it's finals season and i only get inspo to write at like 2 am on nights before 8 ams soooo we're not exactly thriving but it's fine!! everything's fine!!
> 
> ALSO i just wanted to say thank you so, so much to everyone who commented--truly you don't know how much those mean to me, i sit there re-reading them and grinning like a fool like y'all are queens and it makes my day <3


	3. Chapter 3

When Archie wakes, there’s a searing pain in his side and a half-dozen faces looming over him. His body seizes—the crowd roars in his ears—but the flash of the arena fades as a cool hand presses against his forehead. 

“Wha—” he croaks. 

Someone shushes him, and he makes out a swath of dark hair. Cold fingers rub circles into his temples. 

“It’s alright, Archie, we’ve got you. You’re safe,” she says—and of course it’s a she. 

Archie feels foolish all of a sudden, because just for a second, he’d thought—never mind.

When his head stops swimming, he manages to pull himself upright, supporting his back against the prickling cinderblock wall. 

Veronica’s hands drops back to her lap.

“Good to have you back, dude,” says Reggie. “Had us all worried for a bit.” Archie turns, taking in all the concerned faces—Betty, Kevin, Cheryl, Toni, and there, lurking in the back, Jughead. Grime cakes on Betty and Kevin’s faces, and Toni wears a pair of blue latex gloves slicked red at their tips—only then does he notice the neat line of stitches puckering the skin of his stomach.

It strikes him, now, the enormity of what they’ve done for him. 

“Thank you,” he rasps, meaning it. “Seriously, I don’t know what to say—I thought I was gonna  _ die _ in there, but you all—Hiram’ll be after you now, you shouldn’t have risked—”

“Archie. It doesn’t matter,” Betty says firmly. “If it means saving you, we’d all do it a hundred times over.”

“But let’s  _ try _ to avoid a hundred times, if possible, yeah?” Kevin adds. “Like, I think  _ zero _ is a good number of near death experiences, y’know, at least for the next month or so. Seriously, man, I know Toni’s a great medic, but I have no clue how you’re sitting up right now. What even  _ happened _ ?”

“Uh—” Archie breaks off. His fingers itch to touch his lips, as if the day’s events would be written across their curves, but he keeps his hands curled at his sides. “The warden stabbed me,” he says finally, offering no other explanation. 

Kevin seems to understand that there’s more to the story, but thankfully, he doesn’t push it.

Veronica reaches out and smooths back his hair. “We should let you rest,” she murmurs. “There’ll be plenty of time for questions later.”

_ Great, _ Archie thinks. He offers a wan smile and lets himself drop back into the pillows. But she’s right—he’d been out for god-knows-how-long, but blackness is already beginning to creep back into the edges of his vision, weariness dripping down to his bones.

“Wait,” Betty says, coming forward to take Veronica by the arm and lead her a few feet away. Her voice is low, but not enough that Archie can’t make it out. “We can’t leave him alone here.” 

“I know,” says Veronica. “I can stay—”

“You kidding?” Betty shakes her head, eyebrows raised. “You don’t come home tonight, and your mom’s gonna have every cop in town out combing the streets, and probably even this forest. We  _ can’t  _ risk them discovering this place.”

Veronica pushes back her hair, exasperation lacing her words. “I  _ know _ . But  _ your  _ mom would flip if you didn’t come home, and— _ look at him _ ,” her voice cracks, and Archie feels suddenly and stupidly guilty. “What choice do I have?”

“Guys,” Jughead says. “Relax. I’ll stay.” 

For a moment, every muscle in Archie’s body stills. 

And then Jughead adds with a small, terrible laugh, “Let’s just say I’d rather not be home right now, anyway,” and something inside Archie deflates, just slightly.

Veronica thanks Jughead profusely, promising to be back over first thing in the morning with hot breakfast from Pop’s. Betty rubs his shoulder and softly reminds him to call if he ever needs somewhere to go.

And then the rest of the group is bidding their good nights and climbing up the ladder, one by one, until only Jughead and Archie remain.

Silence presses against his eyelids, but he won’t let himself sleep, not yet. He thinks about touch, so warm and fleeting it might as well be a dream. “Jughead,” Archie says. It’s very important that he tells him something—if only his thoughts would stop dancing off into the encircling dark. 

“You should rest,” Jughead interrupts, face closed, and sits himself in the far opposite corner.

He does not look at Archie.

Archie rolls onto his back, rusting pipes and spiderwebs filling his vision.  _ Rest _ , he reminds himself. Darkness pushes, but not before Archie can tilt his head for a final glimpse of his best friend—arms crossed, stone-faced—and the phantom blade splits him open once more.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

“Archie!”

Someone’s shaking him by the shoulders.

“Archie, c’mon man—wake _up_ —it’s not real, it’s not _real_. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His eyes crack open, and he realizes he’s drenched in sweat, every muscle tensed. The wheeze of panicked breathing fills his ears, hurtling like a train crescendoing off the tracks.

It takes him a minute to notice the sound’s coming from him.

Jughead’s kneeling beside the cot, eyes wide. “ _Shit_ , man,” he breathes once he realizes Archie’s awake. “Does this...happen a lot?”

“Does what happen?” Archie mumbles, the groggy vestiges of a dream still muddling his thoughts.

“You know. The—nightmares. Or whatever.”

“Oh.” Archie considers, rubbing his eyes. “More often than not, yeah, I guess.”

“Okay,” Jughead scrubs a hand over his face, “okay, so that’s—but you’re— _you’re_ okay, right? Like, it doesn’t... _hurt_ or anything, does it?”

“What—n _o_ , dude, they’re just _dreams_ ,” Archie frowns, pushing himself up against the wall to squint at Jughead. “It’s honestly not a big deal.”

 _“Not a big_ —Arch, this could be _serious_ ,” Jughead’s voice rises, a flush dampening his cheeks. “How long—no, what do you s—“

Annoyance surges through him as Jughead tries to articulate himself. A few hours ago, Jughead barely even _looked_ at him—and now he’s gaping at him like one of his stupid serial killer documentaries. Archie half-expects him to whip out his camera or start taking notes: _Subject: red-haired male, age 17. Symptoms: abnormal behavior, nightmares, unnatural thoughts._

_Diagnosis: fucked up beyond belief._

Jughead looks like he’s going to talk again, so Archie beats him to it. “I told you, it’s _no big deal_ —I’m _fine_ , okay? Everyone has bad dreams sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with me,” he says, and then again, louder, “there’s _nothing wrong with me_.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Jughead raises his hands. “I never said—”

“Don‘t see why _you’d_ care, anyway,” Archie adds, and then bites his lip. He hadn’t meant to let that slip out, but—

Rain patters softly on the trapdoor. The bunker echoes with it, tiny reminders of the world above.

Jughead’s hands fall.

“Of course I care,” he says quietly. “Archie, you’re my best friend.”

 _Best friend._ Archie looks away, curling his hands into his blanket, and swallows over the lump in his throat. The anger’s gone, and the fight drained with it—he feels crumpled, somehow, like a yellowed leaf at the end of a branch, shaking in the wind.

Only when Jughead steadies his shoulder with a “ _Jesus_ , Arch,” does he realize he’s _actually_ shaking.

Cold fingers brush against his forehead. “ _Shit_ , you’re _warm_ —could be a fever, or maybe infection _—_ fuck it, I should go get Toni—”

“ _No_ ,” Archie closes his hands over Jughead’s fingers. “No, it’s not—I’m fine.”

Jughead doesn’t look convinced. “I might have some leftover antibiotics at my dad’s, if I can just run and check—” He stands, his hand slipping away, and Archie feels the slam of a cell door against his fists. Iron chains lashed on skin. Frozen earth clotting his nose, his mouth, Betty’s sobs getting fainter as even the starlight deserts him. Alone in the grave. Alone in the cell. Alone. Alone—

He tightens his grip just before Jughead can let go.

“Don’t,” he scrapes out, flinching from the shattered glass of his voice. “Please. I just. I can’t—I _can’t_ be alone right now.”  

A pause. Archie takes a shuddering breath, wills his body to calm.

Mercifully, Jughead turns back around.

“Okay." Carefully, he perches on the side of the cot. “But first thing tomorrow, we’re getting you medicine.”

Archie nods. Jughead studies the floor.

The rain drums on.

“Jug, I’m sorry,” Archie says finally. “I was a dick to you earlier. And—y’know—you might’ve been a _little bit_ right.”

“A _little bit_ , huh?” Jughead’s mouth quirks. “Wow. I’ll try not to let it get to my head.”

Archie huffs an exasperated laugh, and after a moment, Jughead joins in. For a minute, things feel almost _normal_ —and then Jughead shifts, and Archie’s suddenly hyper-aware of their fingers still entwined, threads of heat and ice.

Jughead’s pulse beats fast through his palm.

Archie lets go.

If Jughead makes anything of that, he doesn’t show it. “Hey,” he says, toying with the hem of his shirt, “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to pressure you to talk. However much—or little—you want to share, that’s entirely up to you. It’s just—” he breaks off and chews his lip, looking at Archie from the corner of his eye. “You know my dad was in the army, right?”

Distantly, Archie _had_ known that.

Whether he’d ever processed what that meant—for Jughead, for his family, for that emptiness he sometimes caught in FP’s eyes, dark like the hollow glint of a bottle—that was a different story.

“So. Y’know. I’ve _seen_ , first-hand, what can happen if you try and keep it all inside.” Jughead takes a deep breath and looks him square in the face. “And I don’t want that to happen to you.”

Archie’s heart begins to pound again—but this time, it’s for an entirely different reason.

“So—for what it’s worth, I’m here. And if there’s ever anything I can do— _anything—_ just say the word.”

The sincerity on Jughead’s face makes Archie want to bolt out into the forest. Instead, he slumps back down in the cot, careful not to make Jughead feel like he has to move. He knows this probably isn’t his brightest idea, and next-morning’s self is already regretting it—but right now, he’s too goddamn tired to care.

_Just say the word._

His fingers find Jughead’s.

“ _Stay_ ,” Archie breathes.

And Jughead does.


	5. Chapter 5

When Veronica nudges him awake the next morning, Archie looks immediately to the edge of the cot.

Empty.

It shouldn’t disappoint him as much as it does.

Veronica thrusts two bulging paper bags in his face. “I got all your favorites—hash browns, egg sandwiches, doughnuts— _damn it_ , I forgot the waffles. Do you want waffles? I can go _get_ waffles—”

“No, no, this is great,” Archie interrupts before Veronica can run off and clear out Pop’s entire kitchen. “Really. Thank you, Veronica. For everything.”

Veronica shrugs, but it’s obvious she’s pleased. “Anything for my heroic paladin,” she says lightly.

Archie freezes. “What?” he asks, fighting the lurch in his stomach. (A greasy leer across the desk; playing cards curled in a short-fingered grip.)  _"What_ did you just call me?”

Veronica takes an involuntary step back, eyebrows drawn upward in confusion. “I—nothing! Well, ‘paladin,’ but that’s not an insult, I swear. It’s just something I heard Jughead say, actually—it means knight.” She rearranges her smile and watches him expectantly, waiting for him to relax, to laugh off his reaction and poke fun at himself—to be _normal_.

The smile falters when his posture makes it clear that’s not happening.

“Archie?” she tries, placing an uncertain hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he says shortly, flinching under the claw of her touch. No. It’s _Veronica_ , he reminds himself. She won’t—would _never_ —hurt him.

But the reverse might no longer be true.

The touch disappears, and she pulls back, blinking. Archie thinks about what Jughead said last night—the consequences of holding too much inside—and not just for him, but for his relationships. He’s still not quite ready to recount _everything_ , but he _can_ share enough to let Veronica know he’s not trying to punish her for being a good girlfriend.

“Sorry,” he says, reaching again for her hand. It feels limp and too soft in his grip. “It’s just—the warden said something similar to me, the day before—everything.”

“Ah.” Veronica nods knowingly, twining her fingers into his his. “I’m sorry, too, Arch. You’ve been through shit none of us can dream of.” She smooths the blankets and curls up next to him, her free hand arching up to trace his neck, his jaw, her fingers butterfly-light against his skin.  “But you’re safe now,” she murmurs against his ear, “and rest assured, that awful man will never come between us again.”

He smiles weakly. The blinking red of the security camera burns behind his eyes.

When she kisses him, when she hooks her legs around his waist and digs her hands through his hair, when they’re close enough that he can’t tell whose breaths are whose—it feels nice, like always.

But more than anything, it feels like delaying the inevitable.

He’s closing his eyes and kissing her deeper when the trapdoor opens and the inevitable climbs down from the ladder.

“Oh,” says Jughead. “I’ll...come back.”

“No, no, don’t worry,” Veronica says as she gracefully disentangles herself from Archie, “I’m just sorry you had to see that.” Her laugh twinkles indomitably through the bunker, as bright and confident as the sun, and Archie tries not to wilt under its force. “But here—” she scoops up one of the paper bags and tosses it to Jughead—“reparations. Hash browns can right all wrongs, no?”

Jughead just inclines his head, face carefully neutral. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small bag of his own, tossing it to Veronica in a smooth arc. Her nails glint as the orange bottle slaps into her palm. “Antibiotics,” Jughead explains, “a full course, thanks to that one time the docs assumed I had Strep and made us spring for these—just in time for the Mono test to come back positive the next day.”

“I remember that,” Archie brightens. “You missed two months of eighth grade, and we all spent the rest of the year making bets on who you’d kissed.”

“For real? Oh my god, _Jughead_ ,” Veronica grins, waggling her eyebrows, “who would’ve guessed you were such a _scandal_?”

“Shut up,” Jughead groans, “both of you. Or maybe next time I’ll just let you go and die of sepsis, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Archie says. “My money’s still on Heather Jenkins.”

“I sat next to her at lunch _one time_ —“

The banter continues, thawing the solid block of tension until it’s shrunk into something manageable, something less suffocating. Suddenly ravenous, Archie spreads out a few napkins and then dumps out the menagerie of breakfast foods across the cot. Veronica immediately swoops over his shoulder and snags the chocolate frosted doughnut he’d been about to pick up, prompting a short but furious food war between the three of them. By the time Betty and Kevin arrive, powdered sugar dusts every possible surface, a few hash browns are greasing their way down the walls, and chocolate smears Jughead’s upper lip like an old timey mustache.

Archie feels... _good_.

Immediately, he wishes he could reach into the air and yank the thought back. Because as soon as he’s aware of it, a part of his mind starts ticking a clock that will inevitably run down.

He doesn’t want to think about when that’ll happen.

But for now, he lets his friends take care of him. Lets them distract him with overly-cheerful stories about everything he’s missed, ply him with medicine, assure him that his name will be cleared by Halloween—and by Thanksgiving, all of this will be so far in his rear-view that he’ll barely remember it.

Archie’s not convinced. But still, he hasn’t had _fun,_ plain and simple, goofing off and chatting about things that don’t concern immediate survival—in ages. Not since that last golden day before his trial, the memory of it cocooned with glinting sunlight and cool water and air fresh enough to be a dream.

When he was imprisoned, he hadn’t let himself think of that day. He couldn’t. He’d put a lock on it like all his other favorite memories, afraid if he let them surface in the dank chill of his cell, even for just a moment, they’d come away forever tainted, irreversibly stained with the same grime that blackened his mind.

But now—even though he’s as much a prisoner to this bunker as he was to the solitary block, even though the outside world remains tantalizingly out of reach—even so, the lock caves, and every good memory bobs slowly back to the surface.

Because this time, he’s not alone.

Kevin and Jughead find an old box TV stashed in one of the corners, and Betty helps them mess around with the thick tangle of cords until an electric hum announces its return to life. Whooping, they drag it to the middle of the floor and plug in an old console lying nearby. Archie totally crushes it on Pong, but Veronica proves surprisingly adept at Dig Dug, whipping their asses with a single-minded determination he’d only previously glimpsed in her cheerleading choreography.

By the time they make it through every game on the system—twice—Archie can almost forget about the warden’s threats. The concept of living _normally_ begins feeling less like a heavy, ill-fitting coat, and more like something he’d be glad to shoulder.

They let the music run long after the last game finishes. Kevin’s dozing with his head propped up on Betty’s shoulder, and even Veronica has to stifle a yawn a few times. Archie gets the sense that no one wants to disrupt the moment, but he can tell they’re all exhausted. “Guys,” he says, “today was great. Thank you. Really. But you all have school tomorrow, so please, just go home and get your rest, okay?”

“ _Fuck_ school,” Kevin mumbles with his eyes closed. “Video games...more important.”

They share a laugh. Then Veronica sighs and gets up, pulling the others to their feet and hovering by Archie’s bedside. “You’ll be okay? You’ve got enough water and bandages and everything?”

“I”ll be fine, Ronnie,” he tells her. “And I feel a lot better already, thanks to you all.”

After insisting on double-checking everything a few more times—“just to be safe”—she pulls him in for a lingering good-night kiss, slow and suggestive in a way that makes his cheeks burn.

A feet away, Jughead becomes studiously interested in the sleeve of his flannel.

“Ugh, I can hear V’s lip gloss, like, _squelching_ ,” Betty calls from the base of the ladder. “Spare us all and get a room next time, yeah?”

Veronica flips her off, and Kevin just shakes his head. “Straight people,” he says with an air of long-suffering patience, and follows Betty up the ladder.

Soon—too soon—they’ve headed out, even Veronica (but not before bestowing one last mournful caress that leaves Archie feeling oddly like a prized chihuahua.)

The bunker quiets in their absence.

Jughead's still lingering by the table.

Archie doesn’t know if he wants him to stay.

“So,” he says after a while. The strange, unnameable tension has already begun to return, seeping slowly into the room until the air becomes solid and impossible to breathe. “You, uh, sticking around?”

Jughead shrugs. “Might as well,” he says, voice cool, and the grip on Archie’s heart relaxes infinitesimally. “Closer to school than the trailer, anyway.”

“Oh. Yeah. Makes sense,” Archie stumbles out.

They lapse back into silence. Archie runs his fingernail along the groove of the wall and tries not to think about—anything, really.

It doesn’t work out too well.

“Archie,” Jughead says.

“Yeah?” he responds immediately, head snapping up.

“You’ve got lip gloss on your cheek.”

“Oh.” Archie rubs at his face half-heartedly. “Did I get it?”

“Over a little—forget it. Just let me do it.” Jughead wets a paper towel in the tiny sink and sits beside Archie, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. His warmth radiates like a campfire, their knees an ember’s width apart—close enough that if either of them shifted, just a little bit, their thighs would touch.

Jughead takes Archie’s face firmly between his fingers and scrubs at his cheek.

Archie shifts.

Just a little bit.

“There,” Jughead says, too loudly, “all set.” He springs up—the absence of his heat sears like ice—and tosses the paper towel in the bin.

When he comes back, he doesn’t sit next to Archie.

Which is fine.

Until it’s not.

“Jughead,” he says impulsively. “I—uh, I’m sorry about all that stuff today.”

“What stuff?” Jughead asks, and Archie wonders if the blankness in his voice is deliberate.

“You know. The, uh, kissing.” He scratches his neck and attempts an awkward laugh, hoping it’ll defuse the tension that’s threatening to choke him. It doesn’t work.

Jughead picks at his nails. “Why apologize? She’s your girlfriend—that’s what you’re _supposed_ to do.” There’s a note of a challenge in his voice that makes it feel like a question, but Archie's got no shot of figuring out the right answer.

“Yeah,” he finally comes up with, because it’s all he can think to say.

Jughead gives a slow nod. Something in his face slides closed.

“Right. Well, I’ll let you sleep,” Jughead tells him,  already rolling out a sleeping pallet on the other side of the room. “Just give a shout if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Archie says. But they both know he won’t.

Last night—whatever it was, it was a one time deal. That’s clear to him now, just as it must’ve been clear to Jughead. Because Archie already has Veronica to take care of him, Veronica to hold his hand and caress his skin and murmur things to hold back the dark. And because Jughead’s right—Veronica’s his _girlfriend_ , and a damned great one at that.

It would be stupid—foolish, selfish, _wrong_ —to want anything else.

But later that night, wrenching awake to the frantic drumbeat of his chest, his mind jumps immediately to the one thing that can make him breathe again. One person’s gentle touch, dark hair glinting in the moonlight, voice soft in his ears.

And that person doesn’t wear a pearl necklace.

**Author's Note:**

> sleep deprivation + incurable riverdale obsession = ????
> 
> thanks for reading and i'd love to hear from you if anyone has time to drop a comment! :o


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